The Reflecting God
by ParzivalHallows
Summary: "He slowly held out his arm, his fingers dangling just before the figure. It had its legs draw up and its face was buried in its knees. The figure, even though it couldn't see, seemed to know what Sam was doing. It held out its own bloody, burning arm. Then, many things happened; their fingers touched, the figure lifted its face, Sam's eyes widened and he gasped."


Supernatural: The Reflecting God

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.

…

The night was dark and cold. It was well past midnight, and most people would be home in their beds sleeping.

But not the Winchester brothers and their fellow Hunter, Bobby Singer.

To them, night was their work shift, and their job was to hunt the monsters that crawled in its darkest spots. Any sane person would know that the asylum the trio were currently approaching was so dangerous not even curious teenagers dared to go near it. There weren't rumors of ghosts, or anything supernatural. The rumors that _did _go around, however, were true – there was definitely something inside of the asylum, but the townsfolk all thought that it was some human. Sort of like a Mike Meyer's mega-human thing. To the Hunters, this would either prove to be very bad, or very good.

Researching the place for clues was downright next to impossible. Poor Sam Winchester had been studying his brains out to try and find what on earth could possibly be in the asylum. The only people who were crazy enough to go into the asylum, never came out. Their bodies were never located, though it was said that they still wandered the asylum halls, hiding from civilization and chasing after something that wasn't really there.

"Alright, you take that way, we'll go this way," Dean Winchester whispered to his brother once they reached the main entrance of the asylum. The walls had once been gray, but had turned brown over the centuries. Sam nodded and tightened the grip on his sawed-off, holding it in front of him in case of any danger.

It only took about twenty steps until Bobby and Dean were out of sight. In a way, Sam was relieved they were finally trusting Sam on his own. But, in an act of sanity, he was frightened. The asylum was nowhere close to the demented burning of the cage. In the cage there was no walls, there were no ceilings, the floors were made of scolding hot fire with the occasional stream of lava. No matter how far you ran, the cage expanded. There was no end to the cage, and there was no beginning. While down there, Sam had started to grasp why the devil wanted revenge so badly. The place was enough to drive anybody insane.

_Clack. _Sam whipped around, raising his sawed-off towards the hall where he heard the noise. It had sounded like a small stone being thrown on a floor. Or a metal bottle cap popping off of a beer bottle.

Slowly, he approached where he heard the sound. You might think he's crazy, but his job was to find out what was there and why it was there. He wasn't supposed to turn tail and flee like those crazy Ghostfacers (which is another story entirely) would have done. He hadn't trained his whole life to run away when the going got tough. He'd deal with this too.

His footsteps were echoing in the deserted hallways, and the sound made him shiver. He might as well have started screaming and running around in circles to get the attention of the – whatever was here.

_Samm, _the whisper was so soft Sam wasn't even sure if he heard it right. Deciding that it was the wind, Sam continued onward. _SAAAAM! _The whisper was louder. Sam stopped dead in his tracks, rubbing his aching temples. Trying to shake off his headache, he looked around. _CLACK!_ The noise came again, louder this time. He heard the sound of a child giggling, echoing down the hallway. The air around him became cold, and as he looked up, he saw a glimpse of a small child, barely knee-high to him, running into the shadows with her black hair flying behind her. From what he had seen, she was wearing a possibly bright colored dress.

He walked forward. _Sam, _it wasn't a whisper this time. He stopped again. _Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam. _The word, only that word, echoed through his mind. He brought a hand up to his head and tried to rub out the throbbing sensation. A few more seconds of this and Sam was sure his head was going to explode.

_The smell of burning flesh – _Sam – _the taste of fire _– Sam – _the skin bubbling off of him _– Sam!

Just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, the noise stopped all together. He dropped his sawed-off and leaned against a wall, panting heavily.

"Sam?" he turned and saw the silhouette of the little girl. _Saaam. _

Without another word, she turned and started to walk away. Sam didn't know what he was doing when he followed her – and he later wouldn't remember doing it at all. He walked in a trance after her, keeping the hem of her dress in his sight at all times. Half of him was screaming to turn back, that he was going to become the next victim. The other half told that half to shut up.

The many hallways he passed – tranced – through were dark. He would have been bumping into the walls left and right had he not seen the faint glow of the girl in front of him.

As soon as the thought came to him, she turned around. He still couldn't see her face, but he could almost feel the large grin she was wearing. He edged closer until he was right next to her. Her dark, straggly hair fell around her face, so he wasn't able to see her features, but he _could _see the arm she had raised. He followed where she was pointing too, and stopped. The room was cool, and might have once been a cafeteria. Only there weren't any chairs, tables, or stools. He turned back, but the little girl had disappeared.

_Sam, _he rubbed his head. The voices were coming back. _Sam, Sam, Sam. _

His eyes widened. A figure was huddled on the ground in front of him, letting out pathetic whimpers. As though he had commanded it, a faint light buzzed on from the ceiling. Sam looked up at it, then turned back to the figure. If he had the will to recoil, he would have. But his limbs were achy, and he felt drained.

The figure was coal-black and peeling red and orange. If Sam hadn't known better, he'd say that the man was made out of ash. It brought back unpleasant memories of his own burning in hell. He edged a little closer. Another pathetic whimper sounded from the figure, and Sam had the strong but strange urge to comfort it. Do something to ease its pain.

He slowly held out his arm, his fingers dangling just before the figure. It had its legs draw up and its face was buried in its knees. The figure, even though it couldn't see, seemed to know what Sam was doing. It held out its own bloody, burning arm. Then, many things happened; their fingers touched, the figure lifted its face, Sam's eyes widened and he gasped.

"Sam?"

Sam snapped his head to look where the call had come from. Dean and Bobby were both staring at him as though he'd lost his mind. In his hand, Dean was holding the sawed-off that Sam had dropped – though Sam didn't know that he dropped it yet.

"Dean…how did…?" he couldn't finish his sentence. He glanced back towards the wall, but the figure had vanished. The light had gone back out. He looked down at his fingers, and his heart sped up. Black ash that hadn't been there before was crusting on his fingers. The same black ash from the figure. He didn't remember getting in this room, but he did remember the figure…its eyes…so wide and frightened…and he knew straight away who it was.

It was him.


End file.
